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January 31, 2004

The Convincer

I don’t think I am a stupid person. I’m generally not even that flighty. I’m a Capricorn after all, and despite spending all of middle school embarrassed by my sign (an anal, uncreative goat who’s born to plan for god’s sake) when all the popular girls were sexy Geminis or Sagittariuses—mysterious, limber, and passionate—I’m ok nowadays with my level-headedness. I feel like I could get my family and myself safely (and efficiently!) to a refugee camp, without even having to leave our cows or tractor behind.* And really that’s all one can ask for from life sometimes.

So anyway, right, I’m not dumb or flighty. I think Special Ed is just really, really convincing. The man could sell farts on a street corner. He is The Convincer. I offer the following for your consideration:

A few years ago, as we exit the incredibly nasty grocery store we used to frequent in our somewhat ghetto-ish Chicago neighborhood:









Me:Wow, I can’t believe how expensive those pecans were.
The Convincer: I know. Nuts are very dear in this country. Always have been.
Me:What do you mean?
The Convincer:Well, they’ve always had a very high value per unit. Much like gold and other precious metals. You do know that there was some debate in Congress in the 1860s over whether to institute a gold standard or a nut standard. Around the same time there was all that uproar over the national bank.
Me:Really?
The Convincer:Yes, it was one of the major reasons the Union wanted to vanquish the Confederacy so badly. They needed access to the South’s plentiful nut crops to stock the federal coffers with them.
Me:Wow, I can’t believe I’ve never heard of that before.

The Nut Standard? Never heard of it. I’ve got to get to the library!

Last night, The Convincer struck again, as our landlords (crazy people, of whom I’m sure you’ll be hearing more about in these pages) trudged in and out of our apartment trying to locate a leak that was soaking our downstairs neighbor’s ceiling. Our landlords, we’ve realized, have buried many strange clauses into our lease about what we can and cannot flush, do, think, smell, wash, be, or love. As they perused the situation in our house—in matching sweat suits, no less—Special Ed leans over and whispers, “Oh no, what if they see your yoga mat in the corner? Do you think there is a clause in the lease about yoga mats?” I’m all big-eyed, “No, why would there be?” Then he lets me have it, “Well, you know they are finding that yoga mats wear through floors, and really do a lot of damage. In San Francisco there’s this huge movement of landlords getting together to ban yoga mats on their properties.” To which I answer, not “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to watch The Gauntlet” or “What do you think I’m stupid?” but “Wow. But I guess you mean they wear the finish down, not that they actually wear through the floor?”

Who am I, Jessica Simpson? “You mean this yoga mat isn’t made out of milk?”

(My favorite part about this latest hoax is Special Ed’s use of “they” and “in San Francisco.” Who is this “they” that is doing research on The Effect of Yoga Mats on the Structural Integrity of Rental Properties? And of course this yoga mat problem would just be an epidemic in San Francisco, home of Millions of White People Doing Feng Shui. Take note, wannabe Convincers, of these smooth rhetorical moves.)

Well, I have to go now. Special Ed: The Convincer is saying something about our refrigerator running on mouse power.


*This goal has been an important one in my family, ever since my older brother, Lurch, while watching news footage of Bosnian refugees trudging along a grim road, turned to his wife and said “Fi?” (His nickname for her from their engagement. When they were fiancées. Get it? Pronounced “Fee.” And which has lasted long past their wedding twelve years ago. I know, it sounds annoying and stupid, but it’s quite sweet, really.) “Fi,” he said anxiously, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to load all our shit up on our tractor and get us to the camp if I have to.”

January 31, 2004 |

Comments

Donna

J had me convinced that baby carrots were made with a lathe. He has a great gift that he uses for evil, often.

Posted by: Donna | February 02, 2004 at 10:36 AM

zoot

Don't worry Sarah - Its my brother who is "The Convincer" in my life. Remind me sometime to explain where the saying "Hair of the Dog that Bit You" came from.

Posted by: zoot | February 02, 2004 at 12:05 PM

Dan

It seems as though there are two groups in life... The Convincers and the Convincees. I had my wife Amy convinced that all the horse that lost the Kentucky Derby were put down after the race to ensure the purity of the Champions blood line. She has never watched a competition with more seriousness...with more earnestness...or with more of her emotions involved. When the winner became aparent, and I saw the first tears begin to form, I had to finally tell her the truth.....Second and third live too.

Posted by: Dan | February 02, 2004 at 05:12 PM

Grace

I miss The Gauntlet, but am very much looking forward to Inferno (aka Infern-ho- Veronica + Katie + Trishelle= not a lot of brain cells, but a whole lot of catfighting! Woo-hoo!)

Posted by: Grace | February 04, 2004 at 01:57 PM

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